


Collision

by GloriaMundi



Series: Sentenced [4]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: C17, Grammar BDSM, Historical, M/M, Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-16
Updated: 2004-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When worlds collide. (A fourth 1200-word sentence.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collision

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to breathe!

It's a very small room, dusty and uncarpeted, but it's cleaner than the bedrooms downstairs, which after all is what Jack's paying Molly for: he's visited Meg Murphy's place a time or two on various business, and he's even slept (eventually) on a soft, stained mattress in a room that smelt, faintly, of mould and seaweed: not that there's any getting away from the smell of the sea on an island as small as this; and anyway, he has better things to think about, for James is here, alone, with him, in this pale-walled room with its watch-window looking out over the marsh towards the mainland: _James_ is here, eyeing him as though he doesn't know whether to leap on Jack or leg it, and if he doesn't fancy doing the leaping himself, Jack's more than happy to leap first and not worry about the consequences, for surely they'd not both be here now if at least part of James wasn't interested in what Jack was offering ... Jack grins at the thought of exactly _which_ part, or even parts, of James might be most interested, and for all his enthusiasm he almost protests aloud as James takes one long step towards him, grabs him by the shoulders and kisses him as assuredly as though all this -- the rendezvous, the room with its clean sheets and bare boards, the whole notion of their two worlds colliding in this private universe -- had been his idea and not Jack's at all: not that Jack's complaining, with the Commodore's (_James'_) mouth hot on his, James' tongue tasting him as though he were a delicacy, their teeth clicking together and the clean taste of James' mouth taking up all of his attention, which is a crying shame considering that James' long, elegant, broad hands ('he'd look good in gloves,' thinks Jack to himself, and then, irrepressibly, 'gloves and nothing else') are still on Jack's shoulders, but moving, moving down his back, making sure he doesn't get away; Jack wriggles closer at the thought, putting his own hands to work underneath the other man's disreputable coat, working his fingers underneath the threadbare linen of a shirt that had seen better _years_, until he feels the sleek bulge of muscle under the skin and the shudder that vibrates through James as Jack's callused, tar-stained fingers touch his bare skin, still hidden by his clothes, for the first time: the first but not the last, and the first by mere moments as James' own hands catch the bottom of Jack's shirt and hitch it, not very gently, up over his scarred back; Jack's almost embarrassed about the scars, and he's pretty sure that Norrington's dealt this sort of punishment a time or two himself, but Norrington's -- _James'_ \-- fingertips run gently over the ridged skin as though he's tracing the grain of new wood or the relief on a picture-frame; as though Jack's something precious, which of course is true but somehow it had never occurred to him that James might agree, but it's clear from his kiss, from the way he's pulling Jack inescapably close, so close that they're both moaning slightly into the kiss as each movement, each breath, brings their pricks into alignment, and Jack's painfully aware of wanting James' cock in more than just alignment (in his hand, in his mouth, inside him) though he's not sure of the etiquette here: whether he should let James, whom he suspects of happy vagueness where the mechanics of sodomy are concerned, take the lead, or whether he should take it himself -- "shouldn't've left it lying around, mate" -- and risk racing ahead too fast for his inexperienced, but utterly irresistible, lover-in-waiting; though it seems very likely that there won't be much more waiting at all, what with the way that James' hand is fumbling rather impatiently at the front of his breeches, and his kiss is becoming fiercer in a way of which Jack thoroughly approves and which he feels might indicate a laudable urge on the Commodore's part (might as well give him the courtesy of his rank, since he's taking command so nicely) to take matters into his own -- ah! -- into his own hands, just as he's taken Jack's aching erection into his hand and is stroking firmly, just hard enough, with that flick of his thumb over the wetness at the end that Jack hasn't had from anyone save himself since he was in Lisbon that time; the least he can do, really, is to return the favour, and never let it be said that Jack's slow about getting where he wants to be, for there, he's in, his hand is sliding its way around James' cock -- big enough to make him moan urgently, enthusiastically, into James' mouth at the thought of having it inside him, though his jaw aches at the distance his fingers travel to wrap around it; not that he doesn't want to give James the night of his life (and it's not even dark yet) with hands and mouth and, oooh, anything else that springs to mind; but he's also determined to take what he can, and it's not as though anyone's keeping count of whether, and how much, he gives back to James, who is moaning into his mouth, spearing him with his kiss, thrusting into his hand more rapidly than a moment ago: "Bed," says Jack indistinctly against James' mouth, hauling him over to the narrow cot against the wall, and he pulls James down on top of him, simply for the blissful sense of being held down by the other man's weight; maybe James is remembering how their old roles should play out here, because he growls into Jack's ear and tightens the hand that's on Jack's collarbone, while his other hand plays merry hell with Jack's nerves, now slower, now faster, until he realises that (firstly) his own hand's sadly passive in this little play, no more than somewhere (and there are far better somewheres) for James to thrust; and secondly, he's begging breathlessly between kisses, gasping "James" and "please" and "yes", which would be much, much worse than it is if James weren't doing the same -- well, obviously not _quite_ the same, for it's "Jack" whom he's imploring, and Jack finds he likes the sound of that extremely -- so they're neck-and-neck, prick-and-prick, in this mad delicious race towards the finishing line, and it isn't that he wants to finish but the sooner this is done, the sooner they can start again, and the sooner, too, that he can get James out of those horrible clothes and lie down with him skin to skin, on this clean sheet that's incongruously orange-scented and that's about to smell of their seed, of his seed and James' mixed, and the thought of that mix makes him thrust hard into James' hand and bite down on his shoulder and come, tasting James' skin and his own muffled cry: and better than that, better than coming, is the sight of James leaning back and raising his own sticky hand to lick Jack's seed from it, and, shuddering, coming all over Jack's hand and shirt and belly as he tastes Jack for the very first time.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to **thefourthvine** for coining the term 'Grammar BDSM'.


End file.
